I don’t watch too many movies. I think it rattles me too much. I live in the damn screen and when the credits roll i’m spat out back into the existence where there is no eerie music when i’m down and no cool rock backbeat when i’m happy. So I don’t watch too many or watch something ridiculously silly like Space Balls.
In the wee hours of some morning I started watching ‘gangs of new york’. I managed to watch 20 or so minutes before I was forcibly shutdown by a few hundred sheep dashing bye late for their counting. In those 20 minutes i saw something that i saw before and seen many times since. People dying. But what grabbed me this time was how these people died.
The music they died to was beautiful. Filled with moving long notes of infinite sadness. They fell to the ground in a ghastly wholesome choreography. Death was poetry.
And death and suffering is poetry and beauty for large sections of the arts. I guess it was bound to happen. All the great promises of a few generations ago of health, peace and justice are so hollow. So now that we know such things are sheer fantasy we will live with this shit and we will love it. We will glorify it. We will beautify it.
As an eternal pessimist I should love this. But that Sunday garden keeps prodding me. And the Sunday garden tells me that death shouldn’t be in the beauty parlour with a bard at his right hand penning him his latest ode. The sunday garden tells me that death’s final place is in the fire. The last enemy who shall die one day.
The Sunday garden means everything’s possible.